fuck it, i wrote another one about her

“and i feel like the magic’s gone,” he said. “like that aching, longing, romantic 
has been replaced by an apathetic head-space devoid 
of its psychic

“it was easier when there was no hope;
when i was sure that i was alone,
trapped in infinitesimal infinity.”

she looks at me and there’s a (faint) glimmer
of recognition; like (maybe) standing there topless – perfect
nipples licking the air like jet turbines, red panties hugging her ass

like a dot of flame at the
end of a match – 


she has a vague

kind of intuition.

i know she cares. but
as her hair
falls over the screen(saver)
of reality, digital

tuned to banality and neutrality, 

i wonder if she’s the cause of
all this goddamn

the destruction suits me,
and i don’t know if i can have you, this
paradox with a view,

and my burning empire

all at once.

Willie Watt


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